


La Lapin

by SaphiraGranger9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Family Fluff, Gen, Pets, Rabbits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:50:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaphiraGranger9/pseuds/SaphiraGranger9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Think back to your first pet. Chances are, you either remember that pet very well, not at all, or have never had the experience of having one. The latter was true for Mycroft Holmes and he would have preferred to have kept it that way.</p>
<p>However, he never thought that he and his brother would have owned a rabbit. Both brothers never expected to actually like it either.</p>
<p>As much as he asserts the notion that caring is not an advantage, Mycroft still remembers how nice it was to care for something every once in a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Lapin

**Author's Note:**

> Note: THIS IS PURE UNADULTERATED FLUFF. No joke, this is family stuff and fluffier than a bunny's tail. Over my year long hiatus, I have found out two things: one being I cannot write smut to save my life and two being I am actually better at writing things that aren't smutty.
> 
> I like lovey, sensual, oh-that's-so-sweet type things and I seem to be rather good at writing it... that and horror. I will experiment with that one day.
> 
> So have this story about a boy and his rabbit instead. Please and thank you!

As a young boy, Mycroft had been completely indifferent towards pets. 

Not that he would let his schoolmates or his parents know. Sherlock knew perfectly well of course and shared that same indifference. Mycroft, though, found it that it was in his best interest to keep quiet about such feelings as they were seen as something abnormal. He had gotten Sherlock to follow his lead, somehow, or the boy just did not care to voice his own disinterest in pets—it simply was not important. Of all the things Mycroft could discern about his younger brother, he had never been able to figure that one trivial mystery.

To both brothers, though, not having a pet was no great loss. Sherlock, even as a nursery school child, barely registered the bemused looks of his peers when he said he did not have a puppy, a kitty, or even a parakeet for that matter and explained that he did not have a desperate desire to have one either. Mycroft, being seven years older, remembered those same looks but from a lesser degree. He did not know why his parents had never gotten him and Sherlock even one pet. He could never even explain why he did not beg his parents for a pet like every other child. Wait, yes he could.

He was not interested: no questions asked. It was also useless to ask his parents such dribble because that would insinuate the want to have one. 

From what he understood, pets were a lot of work. 

It was amusing to see how Mycroft disliked doing legwork even then. 

He did not have to ask anyone if it was—he just knew. Being the heavy-set, intellectual child he was, Mycroft chose not to make friends—just acquaintances, nothing more nothing less or several children chose not to be friends with the fat, oddball kid who secretly scared the stuffing out of them. From his pool of acquaintances, Mycroft easily pinpointed the ones who had pets and could see just how much work went into keeping each kind.

Soon the list became so long that Mycroft got bored of trying to pinpoint which schoolmate of his has which kind of pet. At that rate, he would not have taken a government position (a minor one, he might add) but a pet shop owner or a zookeeper. They were interesting but not quite as interesting as the love note a schoolmate was so intent on hiding (one that Mycroft already knew who it was for and the X-rated material written inside of it).

Besides the large plethora of deductions Mycroft made about his classmates, it was just common logic. When one spoke of a living creature of any kind, there was the implication that it would demand a lot of care and attention. It needed to be fed right, given exercise, groomed properly if possible, and given an ample amount of companionship—in other words, all of the things Mycroft had done (and still did) for his brother ever since he was born. Minus the companionship portion because of school and the bizarre amount of independence, Sherlock displayed for a boy his age.

While he was glad to care for his brother, he disliked the idea of caring for another creature. Too taxing, too much legwork, and just too dull for consideration: he preferred his time to think, thank you very much.

However, he had been in for a nasty shock when his mother came home one day.

He was just fifteen-years-old that summer and was looking forward to the summer holiday away from his tedious classmates. Sherlock was now eight and had decided just how much he hated school. Holiday was a blessing all around for his teachers and his parents who kept getting calls from the headmaster about their youngest son’s rude behavior. For Sherlock, the content bored him easily. He had written home saying that everything they taught in school was “boring” or “useless,” begging to come home early.

The second week of summer holiday, Mummy went to the market, taking Sherlock with her. She had invited Mycroft to come along with them for fresh air but Mycroft insisted that they go on ahead without him. He hated leaving the grounds around their home unless it was necessary. In addition, a break from Sherlock had necessity even though his instincts literally yelled at him to make sure the boy did not get himself into trouble or upset Mummy.

Instead, he spent the two hours that Mummy and Sherlock were gone to read Dickens, enjoying the quiet. He missed being home—the common room at school was too loud. In addition, there were no boys kicking around a football when they knew they should not be.  
Then he heard the front door open and shut, fast-paced steps coming towards the lounge indicating the arrival of his brother and the more languidly spaced steps of his mother headed towards the kitchen. Sherlock stood before him: a tall boy for his age group and rather skinny, with steel gray eyes and a mess of dark unruly hair on top of his head, looking rather lost.

“What is it, Sherlock?” asked Mycroft, perturbed by his brother’s facial expression.

“Mummy found something at the market and I’m quite sure you’re not going to like it,” said Sherlock in a quiet voice, “I’m not sure if I do. Can you explain it to me?”

Mycroft got up. He towered over his brother (at least at the time) so he bent forward slightly to meet his younger brother’s eye.

“It depends on what it is,” said Mycroft, “I certainly can’t tell.”

“You can’t?” Sherlock quipped. Moments when Mycroft’s own deductive powers failed him pleased Sherlock immensely, both then and now.

Sighing, Mycroft shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

“Follow me,” whispered Sherlock.

He spun around and stalked towards the kitchen, Mycroft striding in his wake, trying to make quick inductions about what happened at the market by scanning Sherlock’s person up and down. They were met with the sight of their mother in the kitchen—a more modern and spacious room than most would imagine, it displayed the moderate well to do nature of the Holmes family. The dining room annexed to it via a small hallway that also led to a laundry space. On the marble countertop, Mummy had put all of the days shopping. Mummy was over at the table, peering into a small brown box with the utmost affection. 

Mummy was a tall, skinny woman with long dark hair and a pale complexion. Looking back on it now, Mycroft could see exactly where the majority of his brother’s looks came from. Except for the face, Mummy had a soft face with large blue eyes and a slightly hooked nose in resemblance to Mycroft’s own facial features. Sherlock had—and still has—the sharp facial features of their father, from the cheekbones to the Cupid’s bow lips. 

The box was a curiosity. It had no labels on it, it looked dirty and worn, definitely not a new gadget or dress but whatever was inside of it caused their mother to fawn over it. Not that the brothers minded (or even still mind) that adoring look but it always struck them and their father as peculiar when she displayed such adoration.

“Hello, Mummy. How was shopping?” asked Mycroft, now trying to pick up clues from his mother about their day at the market.

Mummy looked up and smiled. “Hello, dear, it went very well. I wish you had come, it was such a gorgeous day out,” she said daintily. The loveliest English voice one could imagine peppered with Francophone owing to her mother’s French heritage broke the silent tension Mycroft had felt building up as he, and Sherlock had looked on from the kitchen’s entryway.

“Did Sherlock behave himself?” he asked for conversation purposes.

“You know I did!” piped in Sherlock, indignantly.

“Shush,” hissed Mycroft, his eyes not leaving Mummy.

“Oh, he threw an apple or two trying to determine whether or not it would upset a pyramid of bricks, but other than that, he was an absolute angel,” said Mummy bustling towards the marble top counter.

While her back was turned, Mycroft turned to his brother.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“Pyramid was not nearly a solid structure; they had wooden planks behind it with a large man sitting on one, lifting one end into the air,” explained Sherlock, “Tossed one apple at the pyramid first. Then one at the large man who turned—the board, attached to his trousers, turned with him knocking the pyramid over, as he turned counter clockwise. Child’s play.”

“Said the child,” replied Mycroft.

“I would like to see you do better,” retort Sherlock.

“But I am not out to make trouble quite like you,” contended Mycroft, “Conversely, it sounds like a well-done experiment— excellent work.”

Mycroft thinks about what he said today and still wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t said anything like that to Sherlock at all. Even Sherlock, though too proud to admit Mycroft’s commentary helped him, wonders the same thing sometimes. Both concede that they both would have been bored the rest of their lives, as Sherlock returns to the head in the refrigerator and Mycroft meets with the Prime Minister.

Mummy returned to the kitchen table, humming as she held a large green lettuce in her hand. Mycroft turned his attention back towards her, leaving Sherlock to shut down and process what Mycroft just said—basking in the pride of the small compliment. She tore off a leaf of lettuce and placed it gently in the box before bidding the boys to step closer.

They did and Mycroft’s eyes widened a fraction at what he saw. Inside of this little, beaten box was a tiny rabbit; perhaps no bigger than today’s computer mouse, huddled into one of the corners in a heap of straw bedding. Its fur was a dusty brown color and its large, black eyes shifted everywhere it turned its head. Up, down, front, side to side, then into the straw it burrowed. Mycroft could not believe it.

“There was a farmer selling greens,” explained Mummy in response to the look of surprise on Mycroft’s face, “And, in this little box here, he had also been selling baby rabbits. His daughter’s rabbit had given birth some time ago and he has been trying to get rid of them for the last week. All of them, save this one, sold the first day he brought them to the market. He said this one was too much of a runt—would not make a decent house pet and would probably drown it as soon as he was finished for the day. 

I would not have that of course! So I offered to take the poor thing, I thought Sherlock would absolutely love to have a pet rabbit and—oh just look at it, isn’t it just adorable?”

Sherlock made a noise but Mycroft tapped his back to prevent words from spilling forth. Mycroft adopted a cold stare, though. Any comments about the “adorable rabbit” could wait for another time.

“Er… Well, Mummy, er…Would Father approve?” asked Mycroft.

“Well, Mycroft, your father and I have been talking about a pet for Sherlock for quite some time,” said Mummy, “Though we had been planning in the far distant future—I don’t believe your father would mind.”

“Mummy, do we even have the resources to care for a rabbit?” Mycroft put a disdainful tone on that last word, looking at the pathetic little rodent hiding in its straw burrow.

“Of course, Mister Yardley—the gardener—he is rather handy when it comes to wood work and he could build a wonderful hutch. In fact, I should call him this instant. It’s still early in the day, he doesn’t come to the house until two o’clock—an ample amount of time for him to—.” Mummy wandered out of the kitchen to get to the phone in the hallway, still chattering about the supplies Mr. Yardley would need to build the imposing rabbit hutch that loomed in their future.  
He and Sherlock gathered closer around to look in on their new little house guest who preferred to remain hidden. Sherlock looked amused.

“So it’s my rabbit?” asked Sherlock.

“I’m afraid so,” muttered Mycroft, glad that Sherlock claimed ownership rather than make it collective.

Sherlock frowned. “What do I do with it?”

Mycroft looked at the rabbit and then at Sherlock, then at the rabbit again. “Feed it, care for it, clean up after it; not entirely sure. I’ve never had a pet rabbit before.”

“How boring,” commented Sherlock.

“Just don’t experiment on it,” said Mycroft, leaning on the table, “That’ll upset Mummy. She seems to like the pathetic thing.”

“What makes you think I would?” exclaimed Sherlock, appalled.

“The Johnson’s missing cat ‘disappeared’ after venturing through our garden,” shot Mycroft, “You had a Christmas popper, your chemistry set, and a frog at your disposal—not to mention Father’s matches for the pipe.”

“There were three frogs and the cat got in the way,” grumbled Sherlock, “Miscalculations happen to young boys, it is a proven fact.”

“Says whom?” 

Sherlock blushed. “That’s irrelevant.”

“You should know better, Sherlock. Making up evidence and saying it is fact—I’m sure the rabbit would not even believe you.”

“What it thinks is also immaterial!”

“Oh I know it is, just ask the Johnson’s cat.”

When their mother returned after her phone call to Mr. Yardley, she stood in the doorway of the kitchen stricken by the new red hue of her youngest son’s skin and her oldest son’s smirk. She shook her head, whatever went on between her sons when she was not looking?

**Author's Note:**

> Couple of notes: Why Mycroft? Why not put Sherlock in his position? For some reason, perhaps because I am an older sibling myself, I tend to empathize with Mycroft most of the time. I am rather protective over my little siblings too and tend to parent over them from time to time-- if you are an older sibling, you probably know what I'm talking about. I think, though, that this somewhat put a strain on Sherlock and Mycroft's realtionship-- not necessarily in such a way where Sherlock hates Mycroft as some fictions I have read suggest, but to where Sherlock is simply annoyed by the fact that his brother is acting like a third parent. If the ACD canon is anything to go by, I also see that Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship is actually very congenial. I might elaborate a bit on that because I do not see even the BBC series portraying the relationship as something entirely antagonistic-- they make it so much more complex than it is in canon but they do not create a large rift between the brothers.
> 
> Second, this story may jump around from perspective to perspective. Most of it will come from Mycroft but I may jump to Sherlock at one point then, right in the middle of the story, like I did here, I will combine both perspectives. Memory can be a funny thing and I want to kind of point that fact out.
> 
> Third, feel free to Brit pick. I am a mild Anglophile at best and I know I may have gotten several things wrong and I refuse to use Wikipedia and other certain sites to look up certain aspects of British culture. If you could look this over, call me out on my errors, and perhaps link me to a few places that have a sound knowledge of British culture, let me know please! I would greatly appreciate it.
> 
> Thank you for reading thus far, there is more to come!


End file.
